


Tumblr Prompt Fills

by Tullia



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Frottage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Praise Kink, Rimming, Sexting, Spanking, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-20 05:36:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8237915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tullia/pseuds/Tullia
Summary: A space to post my replies to tumblr prompts, as well as shorter drabbles, warm-ups, etc.Specific tags and warnings will be posted at the beginning of each chapter.Send me prompts at my tumblr here!





	1. Raychael, praise kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original post.](http://tulliabee.tumblr.com/post/151461166177/raychael-praise-kink-mayb)
> 
> Raychael, no specific au. nsfw.
> 
> Tags: praise kink, blowjobs, masturbation  
> Warnings: none

For the most part, Ray had never been particularly talkative during sex. Not that he’s _quiet--_ sometimes he’ll catch himself moaning so loud that it’s almost embarrassing, that he has to bite down on his knuckles or the inside of his forearm to muffle the needy sound. It’s just. Dirty talk always had a way of turning him bright red and fumbling, or made him feel a little like he was in the middle of a weird, cheesy porno.

So, it was never really his thing.

Well. Until he saw what the talk does to Michael.

Michael, predictably, is also far from quiet when they’re fucking--but his mouth is otherwise occupied, now, sucking mark after mark into the soft skin between Ray’s thighs. Ray is leaned back against the armrest of the couch, a hand threaded through Michael’s hair as the man lays long kisses and teasing bites, inching higher, brushing his lips just below the hem of Ray’s underwear. Michael’s nose presses into the crease between his cock and inner thigh, cheek brushing Ray’s clothed dick so lightly it makes him shiver. There isn’t quite a silence between them, with the wet sounds from Michael’s mouth and the quick, heavy sound of Ray’s breathing, but Ray wants to fill it anyway. He loves the sight of Michael like this, his body sprawled purposefully between Ray’s legs, the deliberate curve of his back, the knowing, devilish looks he keeps shooting him when he makes another dark, perfect bruise and Ray spreads his knees a little wider. But he also loves that he knows just how to get Michael desperately turned on, how to take him apart with nothing but his words.

“God, look at you,” Ray starts, carding his hand through Michael’s hair to get him to look up at him, half-lidded and gorgeous. “You look so fucking good between my legs, Michael.”

Michael’s eyes flutter closed for a second, two, before he meets Ray’s gaze again, smirking. “You’re just saying that ‘cause it means I’m gonna suck your dick.”

“I mean--yeah. That’s the idea.” Ray tilts his hips up a little, and Michael’s quick to take the hint, pressing his mouth firmly against the base of Ray’s cock. He’s immediately insistent, mouthing at Ray through his underwear, dragging his lips, his _tongue_  along the fabric. Michael’s got him so hard already, just from all the teasing, and Ray has to bite his lip to keep from moaning for it, from letting Michael know how desperate he feels even though Michael’s barely even touched his dick. He knows Michael’s doing it on purpose, that he wanted Ray hard and leaking pre-come into the fabric of his briefs from the teasing alone. It’s not fair--the boy’s all beautiful, soft skin and honey eyes and messy curls. It just, it _does_  things to Ray.

Ray’s about to berate him for the teasing, to say something along the lines of _put up or shut up_  so this doesn’t end with Ray coming in his underwear, when Michael drags his tongue along the wet spot in the fabric, swirling his tongue along the head of Ray’s cock and only making it wetter. Ray moans, a pulse of arousal shooting through his gut, and Jesus, Michael’s not letting up, he’s letting his hot, open mouth soak Ray’s underwear while Ray’s dick keeps leaking through the other side. Jesus. Michael is too fucking much.

“Alright, Michael, _fuck_ ,” he groans, one hand tugging at Michael’s hair to get him to stop, while the other dips a thumb into his own waistband to try and tug the fabric down. Michael just clamps both of his hands on Ray’s hips, over Ray’s fingers to keep the underwear in place, and licks a slow, wet stripe up from his cock to where Ray’s shirt is raked up over his stomach. Frustrated, he tightens his grip on Michael’s hair, watches the way the man’s eyelids flutter at the feeling. “Come on, Michael, please. Wanna see my cock between those pretty lips.”

Michael visibly shudders at the words, and Ray would be grinning smugly if Michael wasn’t already pulling his hands away from Ray’s hips, wasn’t parting his pink, plush lips since he knows Ray is looking at them now. Ray utters a quick mental thank-you to whatever deity allowed him to be the one to fuck Michael Jones’s beautiful, ridiculous, cherubic face and he shoves his underwear down his thighs, _finally_  freeing his cock. Michael’s quick to drag the garment the rest of the way off, discarding it onto the floor so he can lean in and take Ray into his hand.

Ray answers him with a moan, grateful for Michael’s newfound eagerness to pick up the pace. His strokes are even, deliberate as his big hand works Ray from base to tip, as he puffs out warm breaths against Ray’s skin. Ray doesn’t even get the chance to tell him how good that feels, though, because Michael’s tongue immediately joins his hand, pressing hot and wet and so, so good along the underside of Ray’s cock. Ray clamps his mouth shut to try to quiet the loud, desperate noise that emerges from the back of his throat at that, but the effort just makes it come out as a whine.

Michael keeps stroking him, his mouth open wide as he drags Ray’s cock along his tongue, and Ray is rendered half-brainless by the intense pleasure, by the promise of Michael’s perfect mouth. “Fuck, that’s it. That feels so good, Michael. _Fuck_ , dude, I need you so bad.”

And, as if Ray had asked him politely for it instead of cursing and stuttering his hips involuntarily toward Michael’s face, Michael wraps his delicious lips around the head of Ray’s dick and rolls his tongue, eyes flicking up to Ray’s face to gauge his reaction. And Ray can’t help it as the wet pleasure overtakes him--screwing his eyes shut and moaning, and Michael is sinking down, taking Ray inch by inch and Ray is so dizzy with it that he can’t focus on anything besides Michael’s mouth around his cock.

And no matter how many times they do this, no matter how or where he gets to have Michael, it never gets any less overwhelming. Michael’s skilled mouth, his hand covering what his lips don’t reach, are too much and not enough all at once. He needs Michael to go slow so Ray doesn’t come in a matter of seconds, but also every fiber of his body is screaming for _more_ , for _Michael, Michael, Michael_.

In exercising control not to buck up into Michael’s velvet mouth or immediately come down his throat, Ray lets his brain-to-mouth filter fall away, lets the needy, half-formed, blissed-out thoughts fall out of his mouth. He knows what he’s doing, though, knows what effect it’ll have on Michael.

“You’re fucking amazing, fuck, oh my God. Your mouth is so good, Michael--you’re so fucking good, you’re gonna make me come so fast.”

Michael hums in response and Ray goddamn _feels_  it, lets out another desperate noise as Michael bobs his head. He doesn’t give Ray any sort of break--his hand following along behind his lips, stroking Ray and keeping him slick when he pulls back to suck at the head. Ray can already feel his orgasm building, just from a few minutes of Michael sucking him off, his breathing rapid and shallow as he keeps talking for Michael.

“God, you’re so good at this, you know that? Fuckin’-- _look_  at you, you look like you were made to have a cock in your mouth.”

Michael moans around him, a muffled sound that has Ray’s head swimming more than the wet tightness of Michael’s mouth, because-- _Jesus_. He sounds like that because Ray’s dick is nearly in his throat and, fuck--holy shit, Ray can only imagine what his voice will sound like when he pulls off. He wants to hear the gravelly scrape of Michael talking, and know that _he_ did that, that he sounds positively wrecked because _Ray_  wrecked him. The anticipation of that, coupled with Michael sinking down, firm and deeper than before, has the skin underneath Ray’s fingertips itching.

And Michael’s really working him now, taking him deep and then remaining there, the entirety of his mouth enveloping Ray’s cock with tight pressure. Each time he does it, it has Ray’s cock throbbing, has him digging his fingernails into the couch with the need to do _something_  other than thrust up into the stimulation.

“You’re driving me crazy, Michael, fuck. Are you gonna let me come down your throat? You take it so fucking well.”

Michael shudders, taking Ray so deep in response that he can feel Michael’s throat fluttering around him, threatening to constrict. Ray cries out, his whole body a jumble of sensation and ecstasy and need, and then Michael gags, abrupt and harsh. Ray startles at the noise and pulls at Michael’s hair immediately. He tugs Michael off, but Michael whines at the loss, his voice broken.

“Hey, take it easy man, alright?” Ray says, petting Michael’s hair as sweetly as he can manage when his cock is throbbing with need a few inches from Michael’s lips. “Seriously. Don’t like, choke yourself.”

“M'fine,” is Michael’s muffled answer. He’s burying his face in the inner curve of Ray’s thigh, kissing languidly over the purple marks there. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are wet and shiny, looking up at Ray pleadingly. And Ray was close before but he could come just from the sight of him like that, strung-out and needy, getting off on this just as much as Ray is. He takes a few breaths to steady himself, still stroking his fingers through Michael’s curls, and then lets his hand drop to Michael’s shoulder, gripping at the fabric of his T-shirt.

“Alright,” he says, and he wants to drink Michael in, wants to burn the image of him into his vision, because he’s too goddamn beautiful for Ray’s own good. “Hey. Take your shirt off before you--” Michael licks his lips, and that alone keeps Ray from finishing his sentence. “Fuck. Just, I wanna see you.”

“Yeah,” Michael agrees, sitting up on his knees to pull his shirt over his head, revealing gorgeous planes of pale, freckled skin. With his arms stretched over his head, the muscles of his stomach stretch tantalizingly taut and delicious and Ray wants to lick them. But then Michael’s bending back down, and fuck, he’s  _right there_ , nestled between Ray’s legs like he belongs there. Ray gawks at him for a moment before cupping Michael’s jaw, running his thumb along the man’s wet, swollen lips.

“You wanna keep going?” he asks, and Michael’s lips part at the suggestion, mindlessly darting his tongue out to meet the pad of Ray’s thumb.

“Please,” Michael manages, kissing at Ray’s hand and then leaning in, breath warm on Ray’s still-wet cock, eyes still focused on Ray. “God, yes, please.”

It takes a second for the hazy workings of Ray’s mind to put together why Michael’s not dipping down and wrapping his lips around him again, until he realizes--Michael’s asking him for  _permission_. Ray’s brain nearly goes fucking haywire--he can’t handle that, his _dick_  can’t handle that. He’s going to die young and his cause of death is going to be Michael fucking Jones begging him to suck his cock.

Ray shuts his eyes, overwhelmed, and somehow finds the coordination to nod and slip his hand back into Michael’s hair. The next second, Michael is swallowing him down completely, sending Ray’s nerves reeling and sparking and _screaming_  because he’s too perfect, because it’s too much all at once. He’s sloppier about it now, Michael’s hand finding purchase at the base of his cock and the other steadying himself on Ray’s hip, because he’s bobbing fast and uncoordinated and like he’s trying to swallow Ray whole. There’s spit dripping down the length of Ray’s shaft, over Michael’s fingers and down along Ray’s balls, and the sounds of Michael’s mouth on him are downright obscene, punctuated by the helpless, desperate noises that keep pouring from Ray’s throat.

And, God, Ray has to see him like this. He lets his eyes flutter open, takes in the sight of Michael with his lips stretched wide around Ray’s cock, of the curls falling into his face and sticking to his damp forehead, of the dramatic angle of his cheekbones while he sucks around Ray’s length. Yeah. Michael’s going to fucking kill him like this, but at least he’ll die happy.

“Fuck, Michael, you’re so perfect. I’m never gonna be able to stop thinking about this--gonna--gonna remember it when I’m all alone and get hard just from the thought, gonna fuck my hand while thinking about your mouth. F-fuck you, man, I’m gonna look at your lips the next time we’re at fucking _work_  and I won’t be able to stop picturing them around my cock.” Ray’s babbling now, letting go just as much as Michael’s seemed to, can’t help the small, twitchy movements of his hips into Michael’s touch.

Michael loses his rhythm for a moment, and it only makes it better--the unexpected, jerky movements of his lips, the belated stroking of his hand when he realizes his movement has slowed. Ray notices that Michael’s other hand is gone from his hip--and then sees over the dramatic plane of Michael’s back that he’s got his legs spread wide, has a hand snaking down his front to touch himself.

“You’re getting off on this too-- _fuck--_ aren’t you? You’re so-- gorgeous like this Michael, that’s so hot, Jesus Christ,” Ray gasps, and the vision of Michael like that, coupled with his enthusiastic movements, the wet, hot pressure of his mouth, his hand, his throat, has Ray right on the edge. He moans, throwing his head back as hot sparks shoot up his spine and the world narrows to Michael, to the sweet, sweet pleasure on his cock.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come, Michael,” he admits, and Michael takes that as an invitation, only quickens his movements, takes him deeper, and _whines_. And that’s what does it, the high, needy sound pushing Ray over the edge, and he’s coming and shaking and moaning, loud and open-mouthed. Michael just swallows around him, shivering and breathing hard through his nose when Ray comes down his throat. He keeps working Ray through his orgasm, only pulling off when Ray’s thighs are shaking and he’s pulling desperately at Michael’s hair. Michael’s tongue darts out to give the head of Ray’s cock a final lick, and then he’s leaning back, looking downright sinful with his mouth still open and his brow knitted together as he works the hand that’s trapped under him, buried between his legs.

Ray releases Michael and shuffles backwards, propping himself more upright on the armrest of the couch, and he feels as desperate to get Michael off as Michael looks. “C'mere.”

“I’m so close, m'so close already,” Michael whines as he crawls forward into Ray’s lap, his voice absolutely wrecked. He settles on his knees between Ray’s spread legs, and Ray can finally see him, can see Michael’s jeans shucked halfway down his thighs and Michael’s hand wrapped around his own slick, flushed cock, stroking fast and uncoordinated. Ray’s fucking dazed from the sight and the orgasm and the way Michael’s slumping sideways into the cushions of the couch, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth hanging slack. He’s making these helpless sounds, hiccuping moans that keep breaking from how fucked-out his voice is, and Ray needs to get him there, needs to see him come.

“Yeah, Michael, just like that. God, you’re so fucking hot, you’re so perfect, always so good for me. I wanna see you come. You look so pretty when you come for me.”

“Ray, holy shit,” he moans, working himself faster and bucking his hips with every stroke. “I-- fuck, _fuck_.”

Michael comes with a whimper, spurting white over his knuckles and up onto his stomach, and Ray can’t help the way his mouth dips open at the sight, at the pure bliss that’s crossing Michael’s features. He keeps stroking himself until he must be oversensitive, smearing come along the length of his shaft, only finally drawing his hand away as it becomes too much and he whimpers again. He shudders from the sensitivity, drooping forward so that his forehead rests against Ray’s shoulder. Ray wraps an arm around him and tugs him closer, stroking along his back with one hand and petting his hair gently with the other.

Ray turns his head to bury his face into the man’s curls, to kiss tenderly at the skin behind his ear, and he feels Michael smile against his shoulder, feels a low laugh rumble through his body. “Jesus, Ray.”

“That good?”

“Fuckin’… stupidly amazing, I hate you.”

“Fucking amazing yourself, dude. I think you sucked my brain out through my dick.”

“Holy shit. You had a brain?” Michael pulls back to smirk at him, before dipping in to capture Ray’s lips, kiss him soft and warm and sweet. Ray hums into the kiss, but they somehow can’t stay like that for long. The both of them crack smiles at the simple enjoyment of each other, until neither of their lips are moving anymore and Michael’s laughing into Ray’s mouth at nothing in particular, and Ray’s laughing back, elated and dopey and content at the feeling.


	2. Risingwood, touch-starved Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original post.](http://tulliabee.tumblr.com/post/151507359017/for-your-smut-prompts-how-about-risingwood-with)
> 
> Risingwood, gta/fahc au. nsfw.
> 
> Tags: frottage, begging, rimming, a touch of spanking  
> Warnings: none

Jon’s a heavy sleeper due to practice, rather than by design. It’s out of necessity more than anything--if he couldn’t turn his brain off and go dead to the world, he wouldn’t get fifteen goddamn minutes of rest in a city whose ambient noise is gunshots and police sirens. When you spend a good number of years sleeping exposed to the noise, on park benches and fire escapes and borrowed space in overcrowded apartments, you learn how to sleep through anything.

So Jon doesn’t hear the doorknob rattling open, doesn’t stir when Ryan steps into the bedroom and closes it behind him, or when he drops his mask and jacket on the desk chair, when he fiddles noisily with the fastening of his belt. Or, if he does hear it, his brain doesn’t register it as anything he should be concerned about, letting him float a couple inches up from the pull of sleep, but still keeping him groggy and dozing in Ryan’s bed. It’s not until there’s a broad, warm hand running up the length of his naked back that Jon’s brain snaps into consciousness. The touch is unstartling and familiar. Telling.

“Ryan,” Jon hums, like he’s the best thing Jon’s ever woken up to. He presses a smile into the pillow, eyes straining against the heaviness of sleep. “You’re back.”

Three weeks. It had been three awful goddamn weeks of Ryan out-of-town on a job, of Ryan insisting that it would be too dangerous to do anything more than text from a burner phone. Three weeks since Jon got to see his pretty face, feel his gentle hands on Jon’s waist, hell, since he’d heard the man’s _voice_. Honestly, the amount of pouty, needy picture messages sitting in the inbox of that phone must be borderline unreasonable. If Ryan hasn’t already smashed the thing, Jon would do it himself just to erase the embarrassing evidence.

“Miss me?” Ryan teases, low, his voice a soft rumble of sound close to Jon’s ear. But, fuck, nowhere near close enough. Jon’s already arching into the other man’s touch, curving his back dramatically and opening his eyes to get a long-overdue look at him.

Ryan looks, as always, stupidly gorgeous. The too-hard edge of his jaw and the exhaustion seeped into the space under his eyes are familiar evidence of what Ryan’s been up to, but it only adds to the handsome lines of his face. And god, seeing him, spotting the inadvertent smile that’s threatening the corners of Ryan’s lips--it makes Jon _need_. Because, fuck, Jon’s only _human_ , and maybe he’s touchy and affectionate to the point of absurdity, the kind of person who purrs at a thumb caressing his cheek just as much as a hand between his thighs, but he’s been withheld that affection for _far_ too long while Ryan’s been away. With just the small touch between Jon’s shoulder blades, it’s like Ryan has reminded him of what he’s been missing, wound him up so much that Jon’s suddenly ravenous for it.

Jon turns on his side toward Ryan, hands reaching out on instinct more than anything, fisting them in the fabric of Ryan’s shirt and yanking, dragging him closer. Demanding. Ryan freezes, and Jon sees in his wide eyes that Ryan’s brain is working too hard, that he’s trying to stop grinding his teeth long enough to haul himself out of work-mode, convince himself to let that steel-plated guard down. Jon just keeps tugging, pulling Ryan bodily onto the bed with both hands, laughing in relief and comfort and joy when Ryan topples halfway onto him.

“Jesus Christ,” Ryan mutters, and it sounds like he’s all there now, dipping his chin to smile at Jon and rearranging his limbs so that he’s not crushing the man.

“What?”

“Just. Didn’t realize how much I missed hearing you laugh,” Ryan says honestly, and the way his cheeks pink up at the admission is insanely adorable, but Jon can’t just keep looking at him like this--he needs to feel him, needs him so close it’ll feel like Jon’s drowning in him. He surges forward to kiss Ryan, the soft slide of his lips long overdue, Ryan’s soft sigh and wanting mouth the greatest reward Jon’s ever had. Jon’s still pressing closer, molding his body to the firm muscle of Ryan’s chest, and Ryan responds eagerly with an arm around Jon’s waist and a strong hand at the back of his neck. And fuck, _fuck_ , Jon missed this so much, needs this so bad, opens his mouth on a helpless moan and Ryan licks into him, deep and filthy, until Jon’s dizzy and can’t remember how to breathe.

Jon goes pliant for him, whining only a little when Ryan pulls back for air, the both of them gasping for breath as Ryan moves them, swings a leg over Jon to straddle his waist. And yeah, shit, this is so much better--Jon thanking the lord that Ryan’s shed his jeans, that he can feel the hardening bulge of Ryan’s cock against his own. He catches Ryan’s lips again, bucks up desperately, gasping into Ryan’s mouth when the movement shoots electric pleasure straight to his groin. The friction is intense, and although the two layers of their underwear are creating too much of a barrier between them for Jon’s liking, the fabric drags along Jon’s cock _just right_ , so shit, he’s not complaining. It’s so good, fucking incredible actually, driving him to suck Ryan’s bottom lip into his mouth, to thrust up again. He’s whining in an attempt to get Ryan moving too, but Ryan’s hands just slide to his hips, press them firmly into the mattress.

Which, _God_. The rough handling certainly isn’t helping the state of Jon’s erection right now.

“Easy,” Ryan soothes, like that’ll convince him. “We’ve got all night, Jon, slow down.”

“Bullshit. Pretty sure it’s like--what--three A.M.?” Jon gasps, straining against Ryan’s grip and already missing Ryan’s mouth on his. “That only gives us like, one, maybe two hours max if we wanna get any godforsaken sleep. So. Wouldn’t call that _all night_ , Ryan.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ryan purrs, moving to kiss a delicious line down Jon’s neck. He speaks into the sensitive skin, the vibrations and the low, coarse sound causing heat to pool in Jon’s gut. “You want me to fuck you for _hours_ , then?”

Jon can’t help but moan at the suggestion, tries to catch his breath so he can protest the idea, but Ryan’s far from done.

“Think I could keep you on the edge that long? Tease you nice and slow, get my hands on you until you’re shaking, work my mouth on you until you’re begging for me? Are you gonna beg for it, Jon? Beg for me to fuck you?”

“Ryan--God, no, come on,” he whines. “I can’t wait any longer. Don’t make me fucking wait.” Ryan just hums, noncommittal, and sucks a bruise into the curve of Jon’s neck. The grip on Jon’s hips tightens to near-bruising when he bucks from the stimulation.

And then Ryan’s pulling away, sitting up, so Jon rushes to follow him, scrambling to heave himself up and grasp at Ryan’s shoulders so that Ryan’s mouth will stay on his skin. He feels hot all over, his cock trapped and so, so hard in his boxers, and fuck, Ryan’s still got his shirt on, which is--it’s goddamn ridiculous. He dips his hands to the hem of Ryan’s T-shirt, hiking it up over his abs, thinking of how sweet it’ll feel to press himself, chest-to-chest, against Ryan’s skin. But strong hands stop Jon’s grabby fingers, wrapping around his wrists and pulling them away.

“Don’t,” Ryan says, and he’s not asking. Jon shivers. “Just lie back for me.”

“Ryan--” Jon protests, but then there’s a firm hand in the middle of his chest, shoving him hard onto the sheets.

“Lie. Back.”

Jon’s cock throbs hotly at that. He complies, sinking into the mattress and looking up at the man who’s perched on his hips, who’s smirking all too devilishly. Ryan does take his shirt off for him, though, tugging it over his head and mussing his hair up beautifully, and Jon can’t help the way his tongue flicks out lecherously to lick his lips at the sight of Ryan’s abs, his chest. _God_. It’s dark in the room but Jon can make out the shadows of his muscles, his cock thrumming at how much he _needs_  Ryan.

“Jesus. Ryan. Put your hands on me,” Jon demands, dragging his fingertips up his own ribs, along his chest, just for some sort of stimulation.

“Mm. Not yet,” Ryan says simply, resting his hands pointedly on top of his own thighs.

“I swear to God--” Jon breaks off with a high moan as Ryan rolls his hips forward, dragging his dick along the length of Jon’s cock.

“What was that?” Ryan’s smirk is goddamn indecent, and he thrusts his hips forward again, and _again_ , watching Jon squirm. He’s made his fucking point.

Jon takes what he can get, thrilled by the raw, dirty friction as Ryan keeps rolling his hips. He revels in the way Ryan lets himself hum in pleasure, the way his reddened lips part just from feeling Jon, hard and writhing, underneath him. He’s still teasing, though, and Jon can’t take it any longer, his skin burning with the promise of Ryan’s hands _right there_.

“Not that this isn’t, fucking, hot as all hell,” he breathes, voice hitching on a particularly harsh thrust, “but baby, come on. _Touch_ me.”

“You sure like to boss me around, huh? Where are those manners?”

Jon doesn’t take the bait. He’s desperate, sure, but Ryan’s not going to get him to beg just like that. “God--fuck, Ryan, I--I need it, even just, I don’t know, your hand in my hair, anything, come  _on_.”

“I’m noticing a distinct lack of the word ‘please,’” Ryan notes, but leans forward anyways, buries a hand in Jon’s long locks, and _pulls_.

The sound it draws out of Jon is sudden and wild, a long, sharp, needy thing. His back arches, rocking him up against Ryan’s cock, and that just makes Ryan tug harder, makes Jon twist into the contact. He’s trying so hard not to whine, not to beg, but Ryan knows just how to work him up. He quirks an eyebrow at Jon, expectant, and the dam breaks.

“Please,” he gasps. “Please, baby, more--I need it so bad. Need you to touch me, _please_.”

“There we go,” Ryan croons, finally, _finally_ reaching out to touch Jon’s skin. He drags his hands, slow and deliberate, down Jon’s chest, and Jon’s arching off the bed, up into the touch as much as he can manage. It’s--God dammit, it’s nothing, hardly even sexual, but it has Jon’s whole body burning, red-hot flames dancing under his skin.

“God, yes-- fuck--” he’s babbling, and Ryan must be pleased by the reaction, because while one hand stills at the curve of Jon’s waist, the other trails lower, palming firm at Jon’s neglected erection. “ _Fuck_ , Ryan.”

“This what you wanted, Jon?” he asks, rubbing his hand up and down Jon’s aching cock, stroking him through his underwear. He’s rocking his hips again, nudging them into the back of his hand, and it has Jon’s head spinning.

“Yeah--oh my God, it’s so good, I’m, please Ryan, I need more,” Jon whines, thrusting his hips up with every drag of Ryan’s palm.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll get it,” Ryan assures him, squeezing. Jon whimpers, needing it _now_. But Ryan’s leaning close to him, dipping down to meet his lips in a kiss that’s much too short and not nearly deep enough, before rolling off Jon completely. “Turn over for me.”

Jon’s too far gone to protest, promptly rolling so that his face is pressed into the pillows, his cock trapped under his own weight. He swears he hears Ryan’s breath hitch at the sight, but his brain is far too overwhelmed to process it because Ryan’s hands are back on him almost immediately.

Those big, warm hands slide down the length of his back, mirroring the movements they’d made on Jon’s chest, and Jon pushes back into them, dizzy with arousal. Ryan pauses at his ass, grabbing two handfuls and squeezing the flesh through Jon’s boxers. The firmness of it, the way Ryan grunts softly at the action, makes Jon groan into the pillow.

“You’re a goddamn miracle, Jon,” he breathes, and then his fingers are dipping into Jon’s waistband, dragging the boxers down over his ass torturously slow. Jon moans openly at the feeling, at the exposure and the way the clothing catches the head of his dick on the way down. Ryan’s hands find his hips, holding him steadily. “Up on your knees.”

Jon obeys eagerly, drawing his knees up and propping himself up on his elbows. He feels Ryan shift so he’s sitting in the space between Jon’s knees, and then there’s a hand pressing at the back of his neck, shoving his face back down into the bed. He lets his elbows buckle, whimpering at the forcefulness of it, his cock spurting a bead of precome at the reminder of Ryan’s control.

“C'mon. Spread your legs wider for me.”

It feels downright filthy, the way he inches his knees apart, exposing himself to Ryan with one of Ryan’s broad hands still on his ass. Ryan clicks his tongue, and the hand is gone.

And then, Ryan’s gripping him at the back of both of his knees, firmly dragging his legs apart to widen his stance and expose Jon even more. “I said, _spread your legs_ , Jon.”

Jon sobs out a moan at the feeling, at how much he’s spread out for Ryan, at the dark tone of Ryan’s voice. And then Ryan’s hands are sliding back up his thighs, and he feels warm lips pressing gentle kisses to the dimples of his back, soft hands kneading the flesh of his ass. The kisses grow wetter, become sucking, licking suction from Ryan’s mouth, and the hands are spreading him wide. And _oh_ , Jon thinks, as he realizes, as Ryan’s mouth dips into the cleft of his ass.

“Oh my God,” is the only thing he can manage as Ryan lays the first, broad lick against him, slow and teasing from the back of Jon’s balls to the tip of his tailbone. His brain shorts-out at the pleasure, whatever praise or pleas or curses that may have been at the tip of his tongue disappearing completely as Ryan repeats the motion. He’s being slow about it, almost mean as he drags his tongue, hot and so obscenely wet, over Jon’s hole. “ _Fuck_ , Ryan, _please_.”

Jon’s not sure what he’s begging for, what he needs other than _more, more of this, Jesus Christ_ , but Ryan tightens his grip on Jon’s ass, thumbs spreading him impossibly wider as he eats Jon out in earnest. He’s getting Jon so wet, spreading spit between his cheeks as he licks against him, as he lays dirty, open-mouthed kisses on Jon’s hole. Jon wonders dreamily when the last time Ryan shaved was--because his beard is scraping, stinging and perfect, against the already sensitive skin. And Jon’s glad he’s got his chest pressed into the mattress, that he doesn’t have to hold himself up, because his whole body feels boneless and shaky, everything focused on the press of Ryan’s mouth, the slickness that’s gathering between his cheeks and dripping down the cleft of his ass.

Ryan starts tonguing harder at him, tracing his rim and then pulsing the soft muscle against Jon’s entrance, dipping in just enough to draw high, thready moans from Jon’s throat. Just when Jon thinks Ryan’s going to work him open, going to fuck him with his tongue, he pulls out again to resume the slow, broad licks against him.

Jon groans in frustration, pawing at the damp hair that’s sticking to his face. “Ryan, please. Please, baby, please, I need more. I need it so bad.”

Ryan pulls back, leaving Jon’s wet entrance exposed to the cool air of the room, and Jon whimpers at the loss, bucking backwards to try to get Ryan’s perfect mouth back on him. Ryan must take pity on him, because he presses kisses onto the small of Jon’s back, quick and a bit like he’s trying to soothe him. But he starts talking, breath hot against Jon’s skin, and his words only rile Jon up more.

“You’re so easy for it, aren’t you? God, look at you, shaking and so open for me.”

“Please,” Jon repeats, half-dazed with arousal. Ryan hums, and Jon hears the wet sound of his mouth although he hasn’t started rimming him again. Jon twists his neck to try to see behind him, but before he sees, he _feels_ the two soaked fingers at his rim, rubbing torturously slow. He chokes out a moan, open mouth wetting the pillowcase, and Ryan just dips his fingers lower, dragging wetness across his ass, his taint, down along his balls and the inner curve of his thighs. He slicks up the skin there, thrusting his fingers like he wants to shove Jon’s knees together and fuck his thighs. And, _Christ_ , Jon’s been desperate this whole time, but the suggestion of being fucked, the reminder of how long it’s been since Ryan’s fucked him, has him feeling needy and impatient all over again.

“ _Ryan_ ,” he whines, and Ryan takes mercy on him, pulls his fingers away to lay them back on Jon’s ass, so he can hold him still while he buries his face back between Jon’s cheeks. Jon keens, thrusting his hips backwards to meet Ryan’s mouth, because, holy fuck, Ryan’s working him open rough now, seems to be done with teasing as he licks firmly into Jon. And Ryan’s not wrong--Jon really is easy for it, spreading his knees wider and letting out noisy, encouraging moans while Ryan fucks him with his tongue. Ryan builds a rhythm, a brutal pattern of thrusts into Jon’s ass, and it has Jon’s toes curling and orgasm building, has him threatening to come from Ryan’s mouth alone. “Ryan--fuck--fuck me, I want you to fuck me, please, please, I can’t take it.”

Ryan pulls away, and Jon’s ears are ringing, sure Ryan’s going to crawl across the bed to go for the lube in the bedside table. But instead, he just grunts out, “Can’t take it, huh?”

Jon whines, nodding into the pillow, and he feels Ryan’s hand come down hard on the flesh of his ass, a shocked, broken whimper falling from his lips at the _slap_ that echoes in the quiet room.

“Too bad,” he says mercilessly, squeezing at the pink-tinged flesh under his hand. “Because you’re going to.”

Ryan slaps his ass again, once, before diving back in, fucking into Jon relentlessly. And maybe the both of them knew Jon was going to come like this, that there was no way he could last as long as Ryan had suggested after he’d been waiting for it for so long. Ryan licks into him with purpose, curling his tongue and making Jon cry out, and just like that, Jon knows he’s done. He trembles and stutters back with every movement of Ryan’s tongue, chasing his orgasm and babbling praise, telling Ryan how good it is, pleading him for more, please, to fuck him harder.

And then Jon’s coming, helpless as his orgasm racks his body and he spills shakily onto the sheets. Ryan’s mouth keeps working him through it, a hand reaching under his body to stroke Jon’s cock as it pulses and spurts, until he’s overwhelmed with sensation. His mind feels whited-out, fuzzy with pleasure, and he’s satisfied down to his bones as Ryan kisses up his back, gently pushes him down to lie prone on the bed.

“Fuck,” Jon breathes, effectively summing up his entire mental state. “Well. Welcome back, glad to see you too.”

Ryan chuckles lowly into the back of Jon’s neck, his face buried in Jon’s hair and his breath tickling his sensitive skin. Ryan’s cock, now exposed but still insistently hard, brushes Jon’s hip. It draws him out of his post-orgasm daze, Jon spinning underneath Ryan to grasp the man’s hip.

“Here, let me--” Jon starts, reaching for Ryan’s cock, wanting to touch him, to return the favor and have Ryan coming between Jon’s fingers.

“Oh, no,” Ryan tuts, entwining his fingers with Jon’s and drawing his hand back up, pinning it to the side of Jon’s head. “I’m not done fucking you just yet.”


	3. Raychael, angst drabble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original post.](http://tulliabee.tumblr.com/post/149736603987/between-the-lines-its-kind-of-empty)
> 
> This is a little drabble that I didn't edit much, and I don't plan on editing the capitalization/etc really because it was intended to be very stream-of-consciousness in my writing of it & in its delivery. It's very self-indulgent but I kinda just like it the way it is.
> 
> Raychael, no specific au. sfw.
> 
> Tags: angst and pretty much nothing else  
> Warnings: none
> 
> Potential title is _Between the Lines, It's Kind of Empty_

it’s the goddamned middle of the night and you’re thumbing over his name in your phone again, like you do when you’re buried too deep in your own head, like you do when you close your eyes and try to sleep but all you see is his face grinning behind your eyelids, sunshine-bright, warm brown eyes and fiery red curls and the brilliant, brilliant smile that makes your chest feel too hot, like you’re inhaling fire–but even though it feels like there’s something trapped in your throat, you’re breathing fine so there’s no way it’s not your heart that’s burning.

opening your conversation with him feels like an indulgence, but still you’re not quite giving in, not sending a text just yet, just looking. remembering. as if you couldn’t (or didn’t) recite his every written word in your head each morning while you’re brushing your teeth alone in the bathroom and averting your eyes from your own guilty face in the mirror. as if you hadn’t tried out a hundred different, better scenarios in your head, conversations where he says the things you want to hear, the things you think you see spoken in the glint in his eye but ultimately insist you imagined were there. as if the still words on your screen in the dark, lonely space of your bedroom hold some hidden meaning, like if you were to comb through them for long enough you’d find what you keep telling yourself is there but can never seem to find enough evidence for.

god, you really need a hobby.

the last texts you sent to him are from three months ago, when you visited. somehow, the time seems shorter, like some part of him is still rattling around in your head, giggling alongside you when you retweet something you know will make him laugh, like you could show up on his doorstep and start up halo and pick up your relationship exactly where the two of you left off, like the visits and phone calls and texts hadn’t quickly become few and far between in your absence.

 _ray: hey, thanks for having me over_  
_ray: btw i’m never eating pizza again in my life i’m pretty sure my body is currently 75% grease_  
_michael: fuck you, that’s quitter talk. don’t be a quitter, ray_  
_ray: already am, bro. and i’m pretty damn good at it_  
_michael: stfu oh my god_  
_ray: come back brownman_  
_michael: rip_

the words sit on your screen like they’re set in stone and you wish you weren’t looking at them, wish things were different, wish you knew what the hell to say so that things _were_ different, wish you could take something back or say something you’ve never had the guts to let loose, wish you were still in his apartment three months ago laughing with your bellies full of cheap pizza, with his eyes on you like they belonged there, with his hand brushing your leg strangely, unexpected and electric, with his goodbye hug lasting too long because neither of you wanted you to walk out his door. but the way you shivered when he breathed easily into your neck told you that staying would send the both of you tumbling into a dangerous _something_  that you couldn’t come back from.

so you pulled away and you spent the short walk to the bus stop biting down a grin that didn’t want to go away and pretended that you didn’t still feel warm where his hands had splayed across the length of your back. told yourself that what you had was too good to just fuck up. tried to believe it. failed to convince yourself. ended up typing up a text to him on the bus ride home, typing and erasing and typing and erasing because hitting send might throw you off the deep end.

you tried, _dude, i really missed you_

you tried, _why the fuck did it take so long for us to hang out?_

you tried, _fuck, okay, this is really stupid man but i think i might love you_

you settled on, _hey, thanks for having me over_

and now, in your bed in the dark while the loneliness of two A.M. clouds your judgement and doses you with a beautiful, painful nostalgia, you close your eyes and let the phone screen go black. because maybe you’re not willing to be vulnerable, or maybe you just want what you used to have but don’t trust yourself not to start wanting more, or maybe you don’t say anything because with him, it was always about what wasn’t said, wasn’t it? it was about knowing without being told, deciphering each other’s half-truths and disguising feelings with jokes and somehow communicating comfort and trust and a hesitant, confusing, consuming kind of love without ever really saying it outright.

you plug the phone into its charger, banish it to the nightstand where it’s safely out of your reach, and roll over. it’s hard to get to sleep when your mind still indulges in memory, in fantasy, in the way he used to make you smile until your cheeks felt sore.

with your phone discarded and forcibly forgotten about, you miss the way his three little gray dots pop into the conversation. he types, erases. types, erases. types, erases. the gray speech bubble disappears.

he tries, _i miss you_

he tries, _just thinking about you is making me happy rn_

he tries, _hey so i still love you, i think?_

he doesn’t find the right words, or maybe the courage, or maybe he thought he should come to his goddamn senses already and move on.

you don’t wake up to any new messages.


	4. Lunael, sexting/phone sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original post.](http://tulliabee.tumblr.com/post/151722841047/i-dont-know-if-you-ship-these-but-could-you-do-a)
> 
> Lunael, no specific au. nsfw.
> 
> Tags: sexting, phone sex, dirty talk  
> Warnings: none

It’s been a long, exhausting night, and Miles feels like his brain has swelled a few sizes too big and is pressing hard against the inside of his skull. Maybe it wants to jump the hell out of his head to escape what Miles is putting it through, or maybe it just wants some goddamn sleep. All Miles knows is that it’s pushing eleven P.M., he’s still in the office, and his research on knot-tying techniques for this Camp Camp script has taken him irredeemably down the Wikipedia rabbithole. He’s eye-deep in the history of prehistoric plant-fiber braiding when he hears his phone vibrate from where it’s discarded on his desk, intended to be ignored while he’s in writing mode.

Miles is _trying_ to focus. He really is. He’s locked himself in the office this late because he knows if he lets himself go home, he surely won’t have the willpower to stop himself from curling into bed and forgetting all about the episode deadline he’s set for himself. But it’s so late, and the base of his skull and the space between his shoulder blades ache with tension, and the whole late-night, hunched-over-in-the-candlelight cliche of an inspired writer really isn’t working tonight. So he sighs deeply, saves the document, and grabs for his phone.

It feels like heaven to even sit back and let his back sink into the cushion of the chair. He’d start chiding himself on the state of his posture, except he’s immediately distracted by the preview of the message on his lockscreen, cracking a smile when he sees who the text is from.

> _> Michael: How’s the working life treating you dude? Cause you really should be relaxing watching NGE with me rn_

Miles does regret refusing the invitation to hang out with Michael tonight--he can’t think of a time he _wouldn’t_ regret not being with Michael--but he can at least justify having to work instead of watching anime with his friend. Even if it is 11 P.M. on a Thursday night.

> _> Miles: Pretty shitty man. I think my brain might be goop now? Will update if gray matter starts leaking from my ears_

Michael responds with a picture, showing his laptop propped up on what looks like a bathroom towel rack, the familiar characters conversing on the screen. Miles thinks he can see the edge of a bathtub along the bottom of the image, as if it’s been taken from inside the tub. A text follows immediately after.

> _> Michael: Halfway through episode 4. Shinji continues to be a bitch. Will update if that ever changes, outlook is doubtful_

Something hot and unsolicited twists through Miles’s gut at the thought of Michael lounging in a bath, naked and thinking of Miles enough to text him. He tries not to feel guilty about that, at the way he pictures the steam pinking Michael’s cheeks and dampening his hair, making curls cling to his forehead. He _definitely_ doesn’t think about the way the water would bead on Michael’s chest, pool languidly in his bellybutton and drip down, low, to where Michael is completely submerged--and, fuck. Fuck, okay, he’s making this weird now. Can’t a guy just text a friend about anime, regardless of how much clothing he has on? Definitely. That’s absolutely a thing. It’s not like Michael had sent a picture of himself or anything--there’s a distinct lack of skin in the image, it’s just Michael’s _bathroom_ , for god sakes.

> _> Miles: Dude are you seriously taking a bubble bath while I’m slaving over dialogue rn??_
> 
> _> Michael: Yeah man I told you I was relaxing_

Miles goes to type out a response, to express how ridiculous Michael is or how jealous Miles is of him at the moment, when another picture message _swoops_ into existence. And, Jesus. Miles might actually die.

This picture seems to be nothing _but_ skin. Miles would like to say it’s supposed to be a shot of Michael’s face--which, God, is just as flushed as Miles had imagined--with his bottom lip pouted out childishly, but the shot presents much more of him than that. It’s deliberately angled to capture the light muscle of his chest, his pale stomach, all the way to where a meticulously-arranged curtain of bubbles covers Michael’s groin. Miles can’t resist tapping the picture to zoom in, to bite his lip grudgingly at the way he can make out the _V_ of Michael’s hips poking out from the suds, at the way Michael’s eyelashes have clumped together prettily from the humidity. And, to make matters worse, the picture comes with a caption:

> _> Michael: Wish you were here with me tho :(_

Miles’s brain might’ve been sluggish and aching before, but now it’s working in overdrive, trying to rationalize why the hell Michael’s sending him something like this--trying to tell the eager, very excited part of his brain that no, no way, Michael’s not flirting, he’s just teasing, just being silly. But the whole of it seems… undeniably suggestive. The way the image dips so low, so intentionally revealing, the way Michael says he wants Miles _there_ , while his skin is bare and warmed by the water--and, oh God, Miles can just hear Michael’s voice as he says so, sweet and pitched high, teasing. The entire situation has Miles’s shorts suddenly feeling a bit too tight, arousal sparking through his fingertips and making his heart rate pick up. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s because Miles is dangerously, absurdly impulsive, or maybe it’s the fact that the entire situation seems like a surreal sexual fantasy that Miles has dreamed up, but Miles throws caution to the goddamn jet stream as he types out a reply.

> _> Miles: You need someone to scrub your back, Michael?_

Michael’s response is near-immediate, but still, it feels like an eternity of terrifying, anxious uncertainty watching the tiny gray dots that indicate Michael’s typing.

> _> Michael: Depends. You good with your hands, Miles?_

Relief floods through Miles at the positive response, and then it’s almost easy, sinking into his desire to flirt back, to drive the conversation barreling forward.

> _> Miles: That’s what I’ve been told. Wanna find out for yourself?_
> 
> _> Michael: Fuck_
> 
> _> Michael: You’re okay with this, right?_

Miles is more than a little charmed by the question, by Michael’s hesitation in taking things too far. But Miles is all in, his work forgotten, everything focused on the words flooding his texting app and the lovely idea of Michael in the bath, T.V. show likely abandoned as he gets swept up in the flirting.

> _> Miles: Yeah. Yeah, man, more than okay. I’m good as long as you are_
> 
> _> Michael: Alright. Yeah, okay_

There’s a pause, and Miles scrambles to pick it back up, to think of something that will get them back on track. Michael beats him to it.

> _> Michael: Tell me what you’d do if you were here with me right now, Miles_

Miles shivers, overwhelmed by the invitation to let his imagination run wild. He’d--fuck--he’d like to do anything with Michael, do _everything_ , tease him and take him apart and fuck him any way Michael wants. He wants to know what  _Michael_ wants, how he’d like it--if he likes to be fucked on his back, his stomach, his knees. If he’d beg Miles for it, let his voice get high and needy with desire, or if he’d grasp Miles tight--by the arms or the hair or the hips--and  _demand_ it, take what he needed and be the one fervently driving Miles to come. Miles adjusts himself in his shorts, just the brush of the fingers against his clothed erection enough to make him throb, his own fantasies tempting him to full hardness as he answers Michael.

> _> Miles: I’d start with your back, like I said. Run my hands along your wet skin, maybe dip them low, to the small of your back, but I wouldn’t let myself touch your ass. Not yet._
> 
> _> Miles: Instead I’d massage your shoulders, let you feel how firm my hands can be on you if you want them to be. I’d keep going until you were moaning for me, Michael_

The heel of Miles’s hand presses down onto his cock, generating a rough kind of friction that has him gasping into the quiet of the empty office. His body is electric with the thrill of being hard at his desk, even if he is alone. He’s just grateful the custodian already came by to empty his wastebasket. There’s close to no chance he’ll be found out--the office is abandoned at this hour--and even if he was, he’s not sure he could bring himself to care. Especially, he thinks, as Michael’s next message appears on his screen.

> _> Michael: Fuck, I wouldn’t be able to help myself, I’d be moving back against you. Pressing up against your chest, sitting back onto your thighs and rocking my ass into you_
> 
> _> Miles: Yeah. God, yeah, I’d let you, I’d press up against you, let you feel me. Feel my cock against your ass, hard because of you_
> 
> _> Michael: Oh my God, fuck_

Michael’s last message is immediate, brief in a way that tell Miles he’s probably just as overwhelmed as Miles is, likely just as hard. Miles chances a quick glance over his shoulder, out of an instinct to make sure he’s not being watched more than anything else, before reaching down to undo the fly of his pants. His cock pulses, in both relief and arousal, as Miles frees it from his boxers, licks his hand before wrapping it tentatively around himself.

> _> Michael: Please, I want you to keep touching me_
> 
> _> Miles: I’ll reach around your front, get my hands on your chest. Are your nipples sensitive, Michael?_
> 
> _> Michael: Yeah. Holy shit, yeah, I want that_
> 
> _> Miles: Then I’ll run my fingertips along them, wet and real gentle, while you move against me. But I bet you’d want more, wouldn’t you? Want me to pinch harder, make it hurt a little?_

Miles bites his lip at the risk, hoping he hasn’t turned Michael off with his assumption, but Michael is quick to quell his anxiety.

> _> Michael: Fuck, fuck yes, please Miles, you can be as rough as you want. I can take it_

Miles makes this pathetic, wanting noise at the back of his throat, he ventures a swipe of his thumb along the head of his cock. A bead of precome smears against the pad of his thumb in response, and a shudder racks Miles as he starts touching himself more confidently. Exhilarated, he wonders if Michael is doing the same.

> _> Miles: Are you touching yourself right now?_
> 
> _> Michael: Yeah, I am_
> 
> _> Michael: I’m so hard for you_

Miles lets himself hum, closed-mouthed and half-stifled as he continues the even strokes on his cock. A surge of boldness hits him, arousal skimming up his spine and going utterly to his head as he types, one-handed.

> _> Miles: Show me_
> 
> _> Michael: Oh my God. Okay yeah, give me a sec or I’m gonna drop my phone in the fucking water_

Miles tries to be patient, tries not to use the anticipation as an excuse to put his phone down and roll his palm along the head of his dick as he jerks himself off--but. He’s weak, okay, and the friction is _so_  good, and Miles gets caught up in it, doesn’t realize his eyes have dipped closed until they fly open at the sound of his phone vibrating.

His clumsy hands fumble for the device, immediately tapping the new photo to zoom in on it, to rake his eyes over Michael. He’s apparently relocated to his bedroom, splayed himself on the bed with his skin looking pink and deliciously soft from the bath. He’s laying on his back, naked, with a hand wrapped firmly around his cock, which is--fuck, it’s just gorgeous. Miles licks his lips at the sight--Michael’s cock needy and slick, his hips angled and hovering an inch or two above the mattress as he thrusts up into his own hand. The picture is taken from the side, giving Miles a stunning view of Michael’s whole body, from his bent knees to where Miles can see his bottom lip dropped open on a moan or a gasp--the rest of his face is, regrettably, cut off, leaving the desperate look in Michael’s eyes to Miles’s imagination.

> _> Miles: Michael, fuck, you’re so gorgeous. You’re so beautiful like this, can’t believe you’re like this because of me_
> 
> _> Miles: I want to fuck you like that. On your back, so I can see your pretty face while you’re begging for it, so I can watch you touch yourself while I’m fucking you_

Miles’s own words have his stomach twisting hotly, have his hand speeding its strokes. Fuck, he wants Michael--can’t stand that they’ve waited so long to do this, that even now as he jerks himself off to the idea of fucking Michael, to Michael’s eager words, Miles doesn’t get to touch him. As he scans the picture over and over, he aches to touch, to insert himself into the scene with his hands tucked under Michael’s knees, or his fingers carding through Michael’s hair, or his head ducked between Michael’s thighs, lips wrapped hungrily around his cock.

> _> Michael: Please, Miles, I want you. Want you to fuck me_
> 
> _> Michael: What’s your cock like?_

Miles sputters a bit, unsure of what to say but afraid of seeming hesitant.

> _> Miles: I don’t know, Michael, I mean. It’s not small. And, shit, I’m so fucking hard just thinking about you right now_
> 
> _> Michael: Wasn’t asking you to describe it_
> 
> _> Michael: I showed you mine…_

_Fuck_. Fuck, Miles was absolutely not prepared for that, letting out a little groan at Michael asking to see. But Miles is eager to give Michael what he wants, so he shoves his shorts and boxers halfway down his thighs, getting them out of the way as he pulls up the camera app. It’s more than a little weird, seeing his own cock right there on his phone screen, but he bites back that shyness, thinks about how Michael might react to receiving the picture, might start stroking himself faster or harder at the idea of Miles’s cock inside him. Miles flicks on his desk lamp, giving the camera a little more light than what his computer monitor provides, leans back in his chair, and snaps a few pictures.

He tries not to scrutinize over the image he chooses, to avoid giving himself the time to grow hesitant or timid. He quickly checks that the photo presents an attractive angle of his dick, of the exposed skin of his tummy where his T-shirt is raked up, and sends it. Belatedly, he realizes he should probably type out a caption.

> _> Miles: This what you wanted, Michael?_
> 
> _> Michael: God, yes, you’re so hot. Want your dick, but I can’t stop thinking about your mouth, too. How it’d feel on me_
> 
> _> Miles: Yeah, baby, I want to get your cock in my mouth. But first I’d get my mouth on your neck, your chest, your thighs. Go slow, suck mark after mark into your pretty skin until you’re whining, begging for me to touch your cock_
> 
> _> Michael: Please. Please, I want you to suck me off, I want you to fuck me_
> 
> _> Miles: God, I wish I could hear you beg. I bet you’d sound so pretty, bet I could get your voice so wrecked just by sucking your cock, by swallowing around you until you can’t help the way you’re moaning_

Miles’s mouth falls open at the thought, and he wishes he had a free hand, that he could press a finger past his lips to tease himself, to imagine the sensation of Michael on his tongue. His hips are stuttering up into his own touch, pace quickening as he only grows more desperate, more turned on by imagining the sounds Michael might make.

His phone buzzes, and he glances down to read Michael’s reply. Except then it vibrates _again_ , longer and more drawn-out and oh my God Michael isn’t texting him, he’s _calling_  him. Miles frantically taps to answer, holds the phone up to his ear, but he’s panicking, unsure of what to say because _“hello”_ seems a little too casual but he’s never answered a phone call with the words _“I want you to moan my name, do it, please.”_

But he doesn’t have to, because as soon as the speaker hits his ear, Michael is panting, whining, “ _Miles_. Miles, please, you wanted to hear me, I-- me too, I wanna hear what you’d do to me.”

His voice sounds so broken, and Miles’s head is spinning with the sudden change of pace, the promise of instantaneous responses from each other. But--it’s so much better, and it feels immensely more natural to Miles, means he can speak without the brain-to-mouth filter that he only seems to possess when he’s typing words out instead of saying them.

“You don’t even know what I want to do to you, God Michael, you’re so fucking eager. I want to swallow you down deep, and while you’re shaking from my mouth on you I’ll get a slick finger on your hole, tease you until you’re begging for me to press it in.”

“Fuck, oh my god, that’s so hot, Miles, please,” Michael gasps on the other end of the line, and Miles has to agree.

“What are you begging for, Michael? Tell me what you like and I’ll give you whatever you want, baby.”

“I, shit, I don’t know, I guess-- I like when you tell me what to do,” Michael admits, and fuck, Michael could not be any more perfect, Miles should have _guessed_ that he likes taking orders. His cock throbs in his hand, dribbling precome onto his fingers, as he tries to gather an even breath.

“Do you have lube?” Miles asks. He leans away from the phone at the thought, spitting into his own hand away from the receiver to try to alleviate some of the friction on his cock.

“Yeah,” Michael breathes, and Miles can hear the rustling of clothing or sheets over the line as Michael retrieves it. His voice changes, becomes more echoed and Miles realizes he’s been put on speaker, that Michael is freeing up both his hands. “Yeah, I have it.”

“Why don’t you slick up your fingers for me?” Miles suggests. “And finger yourself open while I tell you all about how I wish I was there, doing it for you.”

“Fuck. Okay, yeah,” Michael agrees, and Miles squeezes himself a little harder at his eagerness to please, at the way he takes orders so easily.

“Go ahead,” Miles says. “Work a finger into yourself, let me hear what you sound like when you’re opening yourself up.”

“I--” Michael whines, and the sound is delicious, goes straight to Miles’s cock like an electric shock. “I--fuck, it feels so good, Miles.”

Miles just hums, distracted by his own pleasure and the sweet, wet gasps from Michael in his ear.

“Please,” Michael says, when Miles doesn’t respond. “Please don’t stop talking.”

“I’m here, I’ve got you,” Miles soothes, brain a little hazy but supplying more of the fantasy nonetheless. “Maybe you’d like it if I used my tongue instead, huh? Leave your cock alone and eat you out, work you open with my mouth until you’re ready for two fingers?”

“Oh, God, fuck. Yes, God yes,” Michael babbles, and Miles wishes so bad he could see him, could watch him fuck down on his own finger. “Miles. God, I’ll open so easy for you, I’ll be so good for you.”

“Are you ready for two?” he asks, and Michael whimpers in response. There’s a moment of just Michael’s needy sounds in Miles’s ear, his shallow panting peppered with high, quick sounds. “Answer me, Michael. Can you work two fingers into yourself?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he hisses.

“Then do it,” Miles orders. There’s a long, rewarding sound from Michael, an open-mouthed moan that tilts into a whine as Michael slides another finger in. Miles is pretty sure he’s never heard anything hotter, never wanted so bad to make someone whimper like he wants to hear Michael. “Hey, you okay?”

“It’s so good,” is Michael’s reply. “Miles, it’s so good, please. God, I wish they were your fingers, I want to _feel_ you.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Miles encourages. “You have no idea how bad I want to spread you open on my fingers, Michael. I wanna see you squirming, desperate for more, asking so sweetly for me to fuck you. You said you wanted it rough, didn’t you? Should I stop at two fingers, not even bother with three? Pull them out and give you my cock instead, since you want it so bad?”

Michael cries out from the talk, loud and open, the sound dissolving into small, consistent whines. He really does sound beautiful--Miles isn’t surprised that Michael can hold his own over the phone, that he has Miles stroking himself so firm and desperate, cock wetting his hand with precome every time Michael makes one of those high, helpless sounds.

“Can you take three now?” Miles asks, more gentle now. “It’s okay if you can’t, Michael, we can go slower, don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Fuck slow,” Michael spits out, and Miles finds himself with a smile surprised onto his face at the insistence. “I’m ready, I can take it.”

“You want me to fuck you, then, Michael?”

“Please. Yes, _please_ Miles, I want you inside me. Please fuck me.”

“Go ahead. Fuck yourself on three fingers, do it.”

Michael’s moaning like he’s coming apart, like three fingers and the thought of Miles’s cock might make him come unhinged. Miles throws his head back at the sound, hand flying on his cock, creeping closer to orgasm as he imagines Michael fucking himself, a hand on his cock and three fingers buried deep inside his ass.

“Bet you’re so tight for me, huh? God, I want you so bad, Michael, _fuck_ ,” Miles grunts out, trying to keep the talk going since Michael’s become a mess of moans, of pleas, of hiccuping breaths. “I’ll fuck you as hard as you ask for it, hold you down with my hands on your hips, my weight on top of you. You’d look so good under me, Michael.”

“Oh my God,” Michael gasps, his voice hitching brokenly. “Please, please keep talking, I’m so close.”

“I bet if I came over there right now, we wouldn’t even make it to your bed. Would you let me bend you over your kitchen counter, lick you open before I worked my fingers inside you? Or would we even make it that far, Michael? Would you be so desperate for it that I’d have to shove you up against the wall, lift you up and fuck you rough with your legs around my waist?”

“Oh--oh God, Miles, Miles please--”

“You gonna come now, Michael? You can, baby, I want you to,” Miles says, pitching his voice low and heated, trying to push Michael over the edge. “Yeah, Michael, come for me.”

Miles can hear him then--what starts as a wet, shuddery breath becomes a high whine, becomes a helpless moan, and Miles knows that Michael is coming. He can only imagine the way Michael paints his stomach and chest so beautifully, or the way his mouth drops open involuntarily, the pleasure overwhelming and--and, fuck, all because of Miles. All at once, Michael and Michael’s noises and the hot, slick hand on his cock has him hurtling toward release. He follows soon after Michael, gasping out the man’s name unintelligibly, the mental images of Michael flooding him as he comes--Michael’s red lips, open and moaning; Michael’s gorgeous cock, with Miles’s hand wrapped around it; Michael’s pretty eyes, wide and doe-like as they look up at him from where Michael’s on his knees; Michael’s hands, gripping hard at Miles’s waist, desperate to hold on as Miles gives him what he needs.

The line goes quiet as they both catch their breath, and when Miles hears Michael switch his phone off of speaker, it’s like the space between them becomes small. Listening to the gentle sound of each other breathing somehow feels more intimate than anything they may have just said, like there’s something heavy lingering in their exhales.

Neither of them can stay silent for long. “That was--” Miles starts, but can’t seem to finish.

“The best phone sex you’ve ever had?” Michael offers.

“I was gonna go for like, ‘the kind of orgasm you can feel from space,’ but, yeah. Also that.”

Michael laughs, and it’s an effortless, familiar sound, settles whatever uneasiness had crept up in Miles in the wake of this aftermath. It somehow levels the both of them again, Miles letting out a helpless giggle, and despite whatever new sort of excitement is buzzing in Miles’s nerves, insisting to be addressed, he feels comfortable. Talking to Michael like this, hearing the smile in Michael’s tone, feels natural.

“So uh. You gonna finish that episode and get back to me about what you think?” Miles asks, trying for casual.

Michael’s laugh is loud, unbidden. “Love the small talk, Miles. Does it count as pillow talk if one of you isn’t anywhere near a pillow?”

“What? If I don’t get to watch Evangelion with you, the least you can do is tell me about it what I’m missing.”

“We’ll marathon it once you get a goddamn break, then,” Michael promises. “Happy?”

Miles grins. “Ecstatic.”

There’s a stretch of silence between them, the two of them knowing that the conversation is coming to an end, but both men a little unsure how to hang up.

“Okay,” Miles starts, “can you just, maybe, text me some more about anime or something? Because it’d probably be smart to bump those messages up. Or else like, knowing me, I’d accidentally open your conversation in front of half the animation department--and, y’know, dying of embarrassment is not the way I wanna go out.”

“Yeah, man,” Michael says, a smile in his words. “I’ll do that.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.” A beat. “Bye?”

“Bye, Michael.”

Miles is packing up his things, switching the monitors and lights off, when he gets Michael’s promised text.

> _> Michael: You wanna get in my robot, Shinji? ;)))_
> 
> _> Miles: Okay nevermind I’m deleting your number_
> 
> _> Michael: Don’t forget to save the pictures first  <3_
> 
> _> Miles: I hate you_
> 
> _> Miles: Goodnight Michael_
> 
> _> Michael: Night Miles_


	5. Raychael, meeting for the first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original post.](http://tulliabee.tumblr.com/post/151922043952/raychael-liberty-city-au-meeting-for-the-first)
> 
> This is the first I've written in this au, but it's a non-fahc story set in Liberty City, where Ray is a nursing student trying to get his life together, and Michael's trying to make a name for himself through illegal underground fighting & doing favors for the Gents' gang. And, well, Ray is always there to patch him up and tell him what a dumb idiot he's being.
> 
> Raychael, sfw.
> 
> Tags: first meeting, fighting/mentions of blood  
> Warnings: none

The day he meets Michael, Ray almost gets the shit kicked out of him.

As they grow older and Michael only seems to get cockier, more reckless, a growing boy with a shortening fuse, Michael tends to be the one to come home bruised and beaten. He goddamn welcomes it, spits in the face of anyone who looks at him funny just so he can act as a punching bag for someone who’s bigger than him, who’s a better fighter than him. The kid gets two swings in and that’s enough for Michael to consider himself scrappy, to show up at Ray’s with a winner’s grin on his face even though his teeth are bloody and he most certainly lost.

Ray’s thirteen and he’s taking a shortcut home, hood up and hands in his pockets as he cuts through a familiar alleyway, trying to scrape a few minutes off of the long trek across town. He’s been pocketing the bus fare that gets left out on the kitchen counter every morning since the day he realized his mom would be none the wiser. He eventually figured out that mom doesn’t get home until five-fifteen, so if he takes this shortcut and the one through the parking lot two blocks down, he’s got time to swing by the corner store and spend those precious two dollars on a candy bar and a slurpee.

He’s debating whether it’s worth forgoing the Snickers today to start saving up for a used copy of Halo, when a kid comes sprinting around the corner, whirling into the alley with a grin splitting his face and his chest heaving with exertion. The kid looks like he’s close to Ray’s age, and maybe he’s a little familiar like Ray’s seen him at school, but he can’t be sure if he recognizes this boy with wild auburn curls, too many freckles, and something to run from. It’s not like he pays all that much attention to the people at school--the less he stares back at the people who sneer at his worn-out secondhand clothes and free lunch tickets, the less it encourages them.

The kid’s got something hugged to his chest as he leans against the dirty brick wall and catches his breath, and while Ray’s curious as to what’s causing the catlike grin on the boy’s face, he’s not planning on getting involved. Ray’s about to leave him the hell alone, let this chance encounter be nothing more than Ray pretending he never saw this guy looking like he’s done something he shouldn’t, when something catches his eye.

There’s a couple dollar bills fluttering in the wake of the stranger’s path, a short trail of singles that leads back to the object he’s holding--a tip jar, Ray realizes. Ray should absolutely keep walking, should let this kid get away with his petty theft--except. Except the script on the hand-painted mason jar is unmistakable, reading “Peg’s Pastries” in bubbly cursive lettering.

It’s the tip jar that belongs in a tiny mom-and-pop bakery about four blocks north of here, the one Ray’s favorite aunt takes him to on Saturday mornings when mom has to work Friday overnights. She buys him heaping plates of cherry pie and lets him have the whipped cream off her chocolate eclair, and he likes the way the nice lady behind the counter smiles and calls him “sweet pea” when she rings the two of them up.

It’s the stupidest reason to feel angry, but Ray stops short in front of the thief anyways. The scrape of his shoe against the concrete is loud and Ray nearly winces with how severely the kid’s head whips up to look at him.

Ray’s looking at the jar, not the boy’s fading smile, when he says, “That’s kinda screwed up, man.”

“Yeah, what’re you gonna do about it?” the kid sneers, standing up straight to puff himself up a little bigger, show that even if he may not have much on Ray in terms of size, he’s definitely got an intimidation factor. “Fuck off.”

“That’s not yours,” Ray insists, running his mouth when he should really be heeding the stranger’s advice.

The kid snorts. “It is now.”

“So do you go by Peg, or Peggy, then?” Ray asks a bit too smartly, raising an eyebrow from behind his thick-framed glasses.

The boy bristles, grips the glass jar of singles in one hand while balling the other into a fist at his side. “Did you hear me right, shithead? You wanna mind your own goddamn business and get lost already?”

“Neither, huh? Maybe Margaret?”

The thief takes a step, then another toward Ray, and he knows he’s fucked up. He glances toward the mouth of the alley, wagers his chances of making an escape, at least to the sidewalk where a good Samaritan might stop him from getting his ass kicked. But then the guy is right there, crowding him, and somehow the boy’s cherubic face is twisted into a snarl so vicious it has Ray backpedaling, fast. A rough hand yanks his hood down. “You think you’re fucking funny, man? ‘Cause I’m not laughing.”

“Nah, I’m-- shit, dude, I didn’t mean to piss you off, honest,” Ray says quickly, not liking the way the stranger is weighing the thick glass jar in his hand. The boy’s certainly no older than Ray, but Ray knows firsthand how quickly kids grow up in this city, doesn’t doubt that this guy’s confidence has a lot to do with practice swings on playgrounds and on jawbones and in alleys just like this one.

Ray takes a step back, but his resignation only seems to stoke the kid’s temper, and suddenly there’s a hand fisted in the front of his sweatshirt. Ray panics, unsure of where this is going other than somewhere that will certainly end poorly for him. So he braces his hands on the boy’s chest, leans all his weight forward, and shoves, knocking the both of them off balance but effectively sending the stranger careening backward.

The sensible voice in Ray’s head is telling him to _run, run, get the fuck out of here and hope this dude forgets your face by lunch tomorrow_ , but the _thud_ of the stranger hitting the wall is coupled with a startling _crash_ as the glass jar shatters against the brick. The sound sends a rush of dread through Ray, a shock of guilt and _ohgoddidIhurthim_ , _ohgodisheokay_ , and while his feet manage to carry him a few mindless steps away from the scene, a sharp hiss of pain makes Ray’s shoes scrape to a halt again.

The kid is hunched over with his back against the wall, gripping his hand as it drips blood onto the concrete. The shattered remains of the tip jar are mixed in with the bills and change strewn across the ground, and Ray is pretty sure he can see a few shards sparkling from where they’re embedded in the kid’s palm.

“Oh, shit,” Ray says dumbly. “Oh, fuck, are you okay?”

“What?” the boy asks, looking up like he can’t believe Ray’s still there. He stands up a little straighter. “Yeah, no, I’m fucking fine. I’ll still kick your ass, don’t think you have the upper hand because you’re a piece of shit who fights dirty.”

“Look, man, I really didn’t mean to,” Ray says honestly, eyes locked on the way blood won’t stop flowing. “Maybe, uh, don’t kick my ass though, cause it’d probably really hurt if you punched something right now?”

“I think you should probably stop telling me what the fuck to do and-- um. What the fuck are you doing?”

Ray’s shrugged off his sweatshirt and approached the kid, far too guilty to even think about running off now that he can see that, shit, he’s really hurt the guy. The boy yanks his arm away when Ray touches him, spits out a fiery “Keep your hands off me, I’m _fine_.”

“Dude. This’ll help with the bleeding, and like it or not, you’re gonna have to get the glass out one way or another.” To Ray’s surprise, the boy bites his lip and lets him wrap his sweatshirt around the injured hand with relatively little squirming. “My mom’s a nurse, so if you want to avoid making your parents take you to the ER, you can follow me home and she’ll, well, she can patch you up. She’s still gonna ask questions, but at least it’s a lecture from _my_ mom and not your own, y'know?”

The kid hugs his arm to his chest, and there’s something replacing the fury in his eyes, an open vulnerability that says he’s shaken, that he’s young and hurt and can’t help the way that he needs someone to help him.

“Uh, alright. I mean, I guess.”

–

Sitting at his kitchen table with this strange kid is probably the most awkward encounter Ray’s had to face in his life. They’re both uncomfortably quiet as they wait around for Ray’s mom to arrive, but, well, what the hell is Ray supposed to say? Sorry I fucked up your hand because you tried to hit me? Do you want a glass of water or something? Wanna play Xbox while we wait?

But Ray only has one controller, and he’s pretty sure the boy’s not in any shape to be manipulating a joystick anyways.

Eventually, though, the kid pipes up. “So, should we get our story straight, then?”

“You don’t wanna tell my mom all about how you stole somebody’s tip jar and then tried to beat me up in an alley?”

“Not really, no.”

“Then, um, you tripped and landed on some glass on the side of the road, and I saw you when I was on my way to the bus stop. That work?”

“Sure. Okay,” the guy says, and Ray’s grateful that he doesn’t question the fact that they skipped the bus ride in lieu of walking.

The two of them go quiet, the room silent except for the hum of Ray’s refrigerator and the anxious fidgeting of their feet on the linoleum.

“You’re still a piece of shit, though,” the boy huffs, and Ray’s surprised to find a weak smile creeping onto the stranger’s face.

Ray glances at the bulky, makeshift bandage on the guy’s hand, frowns at the way he can see blood poking through the thinner parts of the fabric. He really does feel bad. “That’s fair,” he concedes.

There’s a pause, a stretch of feet tapping while the fridge goes idle.

“I’m Ray, by the way.”

“Michael.”

“Huh. I liked Margaret better.”

“Fuck you.”


	6. Micheoff, rough sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original post.](http://tulliabee.tumblr.com/post/152187656017/i-dont-know-if-your-prompts-are-still-open-but)
> 
> Micheoff (+ mentions of Myeoff), no specific au. nsfw.
> 
> Tags: spanking, anal fingering, elements of d/s, praise kink, slight pain kink  
> Warnings: none (one use of the word "slutty" if that offends you)

“So, what the hell was all that about?” Geoff asks, finally, during the drive home.

“All what?” Michael responds, a coy smile on his face. As if he doesn’t know. As if he hadn’t fallen into Ryan’s lap at every opportunity today, hadn’t followed him like a lost puppy and showered him in praise during the Minecraft they recorded, or grabbed him by the front of the shirt and tried to drag him forcibly into appearing on AHWU. As though he hadn’t been watching Geoff throughout all of it, judging Geoff’s reaction as he ran his hand over Ryan’s chest just out of frame, scanning earnestly for a tick of anger, of jealousy.

“Don’t bullshit me, dude. You can’t pretend like you weren’t sucking Ryan’s dick all goddamn day. Seriously, any longer and I thought you were gonna trip over your shoelaces just to _accidentally_ end up with his cock in your mouth.”

“Does that piss you off?” Michael asks, hopeful.

“What? No,” Geoff answers quickly. “Just, if you’re trying to bring him home--if that’s something you want, you should tell me. ‘Cause we’ll have a better chance at seducing him if we’re both going at him.”

“Oh my God, Geoff,” Michael mutters, shaking his head.

Geoff glances at him from behind the wheel. It takes a few seconds for the disappointed look on Michael’s face to register. “Were you _hoping_  it’d piss me off?”

“Yeah. Kinda.”

“So you don’t wanna fuck Ryan?” Geoff asks with a tilt of his head, trying to pinpoint exactly what Michael is on about.

“I mean--shit, I never said that, but that’s not what I was trying to get out of flirting with him all day,” Michael clarifies. He figures the game is over--because, well, apparently Geoff wasn’t even playing this whole time. “I was trying to make you jealous, man. Get you all angry and possessive and hot.”

“You know you’re allowed to flirt with whoever the fuck you want, right, Michael?” Geoff chuckles, shooting him an amused look.

“Jesus, Geoff, take the goddamn hint. You’re fucking sexy when you’re mad, I was hoping you’d drag me home and fuck me rough and show me who’s boss.” Something hot coils in the pit of Michael’s stomach as he hears the words coming from his own mouth.

Geoff’s eyebrows skyrocket at the admission, and then the stupid fucker is laughing again. “You want me to be rough with you, all you have to do is ask, baby.”

\--

The moment they make it through the door, Geoff is on him, kissing down his neck without ceremony. He backs Michael up against the unyielding wood of the door, effectively trapping him with the weight of his body as he sucks bites into Michael’s throat, marking, claiming. Michael lets out a satisfied hum at the feeling, practically purring at the way Geoff slips a hand into his curls, petting and gentle in comparison to the dull pain of his teeth.

Michael is just about to whine, to buck forward and start begging for Geoff not to go easy on him, when Geoff’s grip tightens on his hair. He yanks Michael’s head to the side unkindly, exposing more of his neck for Geoff to ravage as Michael hisses, feels his cock throb from the sting. It’s a lovely mix of pleasure and pain--Geoff’s slow tongue sliding over his marks, licking wet and dirty along Michael’s collarbone, while his hand is locked tightly in Michael’s hair, pulling just hard enough to take Michael’s breath away.

“This what you were hoping for, Michael?” Geoff asks, low, into his neck.

“Little vanilla for my taste,” Michael smirks, challenging. Geoff laves his tongue over a tender bruise, making him shiver. “Thought you might take the opportunity to mix it up a little bit.”

Geoff hums, kissing softly back up his neck. His lips are suddenly gentle, almost ticklish, against the tender spot behind Michael’s ear. “Oh, believe me, I will,” Geoff whispers. “We’re just getting you warmed up.”

Then Geoff sinks his teeth harshly into Michael’s skin, and Michael yelps, thrusts his hips forward involuntarily in his desperation for some sort of contact, for friction, for anything. Geoff just chuckles, low, and shoves his hips back into place, keeps teasing him, keeps kissing and sucking and biting like he’s got all the time in the world.

When Geoff finally pulls away, decides to let up in favor of dragging Michael roughly by the hair to their bedroom, Michael is a delightful chorus of whines.

\--

Geoff wastes no time in stripping them down--or, Michael realizes, stripping  _him_  down, as Michael finds himself naked and spread out on the mattress, skin buzzing with anticipation. Geoff’s only shed his sweatshirt, kept his T-shirt, his jeans, even his _shoes_  on as he stands at the foot of the bed, thumbing his bottom lip while he appreciates the sight before him.

There’s something hot about that--being so exposed, bare and ready under Geoff’s hungry gaze, while Geoff appears so casual. He’s asserting an air of control by simply denying Michael the exposure of Geoff’s skin. It only makes Michael want it harder, want to _see_ , to grab and stroke and taste.

It really doesn’t take long for Michael to let the insistent throb of _want_ , _need_ , take over. Geoff’s already tossed a bottle of lube onto the bed, just far enough away from Michael to keep him from diving for it. And, fuck, Geoff’s gaze alone, half-lidded and heated as it slips over Michael’s body, has him whining. A hand flies to his own cock out of instinct, either to give Geoff something to watch or in a selfish attempt to alleviate the aching pressure in his groin.

The hand sliding thoughtfully across Geoff’s face freezes, and Michael stills his strokes at the reaction, knowing he’s fucked up. The knowledge makes a rush of heat vibrate into his chest, has goosebumps raising on his skin from the way it makes him wonder--what might Geoff do if he kept going, if he disregarded Geoff’s warning look and pressed the man’s buttons just that much harder.

“Hands off, Michael,” Geoff warns. “I thought you’d be able to figure out that much on your own.” Geoff takes a slow step closer, knees bumping the edge of the mattress. “Or are you still trying to piss me off? You want me to hold you down so you _can’t_ touch yourself? Or maybe you’re hoping I’ll tie you up, huh? Is that what you want?”

“No-- no, I’ll be good,” Michael assures him, breathless. He drops both hands by his sides, twisting them into the sheets in restraint. God, he’s so hard already, leaking pitifully against his own belly even though Geoff’s barely touched him. It’s the buildup, the threats and promises of Geoff’s strong hands, that has him rolling his hips mindlessly into the empty air. “Wanna touch _you_ , Geoff.”

Geoff smiles fondly and sits at the edge of the bed with his feet planted on the floor. He extends a hand to Michael, and concedes, “Alright, if you’ll be good. Come here.”

Michael rushes to sit up, strokes appreciatively up the warm muscles of Geoff’s back before swinging around to Geoff’s front, letting the man catch him with an arm around his waist and pull Michael to straddle his thighs. Michael’s thrilled by the opportunity to lavish Geoff with attention, to show him just how bad he wants this. He buries his face in Geoff’s neck, hands stroking the muscles of Geoff’s chest through his T-shirt while he presses warm kisses to his throat.

Geoff rewards him with a low hum, and, even better, by tipping his chin down to whisper filthy things into Michael’s ear.

“Were you thinking about it all day, Michael?” he whispers, voice husky and demanding to be listened to. “What’d you imagine I’d do to you? I bet you want me to get you facedown, a hand in your hair again, pushing you down while I fuck into you hard enough that you can barely breathe. I’m not gonna go easy on you. I’m gonna take what I want, and you won’t even have to beg me to go faster, harder. Because I’m not going to wait for you to ask.”

Michael lets out a wordless moan at the talk, lets his kisses become open-mouthed and wet against Geoff’s skin. He’s rocking involuntarily in Geoff’s grip, cock bumping messily into Geoff’s stomach and getting his shirt sticky with precome. Geoff doesn’t seem to mind, though, instead letting his hands grip Michael’s ass, encouraging him to keep rolling his hips. His big hands squeeze like he wants to claim Michael as his own, like he’s going to dig his fingers in and never let go.

“Or maybe I won’t fuck you at all,” Geoff teases, and Michael whines in protest, grinds his ass down against the rough fabric of Geoff’s jeans. “I think you might like it better if I put you over my knee, spread you open on my fingers and got you squirming, begging for my cock--but you’re gonna come exactly how I want you to, or not at all.”

“Geoff, please,” Michael gasps, pulling away to look at Geoff. His eyes are dark, pupils blown from the promise of how he’s planning on taking Michael apart--and Michael’s are already wet, the ache between his legs and the threat of being denied drawing the beginnings of desperate tears. “Please, please, I’ll be so good, I promise.”

Geoff’s strong hands force Michael down into his lap, the fabric of his jeans scraping deliciously against the sensitive skin of Michael’s thighs. “Mmm. You don’t have to remind me. You’re always such a good boy, Michael.”

Michael’s skin tingles with the praise, and his body feels loose as he allows himself to be moved, slow circles of his hips coaxed by Geoff’s hands on his ass.

“But you were trying to be naughty for me today, weren’t you? Hoping I’d punish you? Because I can do that, baby boy. I know how much you like to be spanked.”

“Oh, fuck,” Michael says, shivering. Before he can tell Geoff how much he wants that, Michael’s being lifted by the waist, roughly repositioned so he’s flopped facedown over Geoff’s thighs. The position has Michael off-balance, his elbows and knees propped up on the mattress but the majority of his weight held up by Geoff’s legs digging into his stomach. He tries to shift back, put some of the weight on his knees so he’s not teetering in Geoff’s lap, but Geoff shoves him back into position, denies Michael even that bit of control. Michael lets his back depress under Geoff’s forceful hand, comforted by the way he can trust Geoff enough to submit so completely.

“You can tell me to stop anytime, okay?” Geoff’s hand is stroking a gentle pattern from the small of his back, over his ass, along his thighs, and back up again. “I won’t mind. You’re perfect, even if it’s too much.” Geoff’s thumb presses at one of the dimples in his lower back, circling. “Always so perfect.”

“I’ll be fine, c'mon,” Michael insists. He appreciates the reassurance, but fuck, being draped over Geoff’s lap has him impatient. He bucks forward, grinding his cock into Geoff’s leg and hissing at the raw friction. “Don’t gotta be gentle with me.”

“I’m not planning on it,” Geoff grunts, giving Michael’s ass a rough squeeze before pulling his hand away, making Michael’s muscles clench with anticipation.

The first slap makes Michael gasp sharply, hips thrusting forward from the shock even after being so ready for it. It’s just a warm-up, nowhere near full-force from Geoff, but the harsh sound of skin on skin, the slight sting that’s left behind, has Michael’s breath growing shallow.

Geoff doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t let Michael get a breather before delivering another blow, harder this time, into the flesh of Michael’s ass. The attention already has Michael getting loud--moaning at the sharp pain as Geoff fiercely lays into him, slaps growing harsher the noisier Michael gets. Michael bites down onto his forearm to stifle the open-mouthed groans, instead inviting whines, whimpers as Geoff continues to spank him. Each one feels just that much better than the last, sending white-hot licks of pleasure through Michael’s body. Geoff’s only growing bolder, pushing the limits of what Michael can take, spurred on by the needy sounds spilling from the man.

Geoff’s hand pulls away after a slap that leaves Michael’s head spinning, but doesn’t come back for another go. Michael whines, drags his cock messily along the rough denim underneath him, and lifts his ass back up for more. He distantly registers the cap of the lube clicking open, and that’s some indication of what’s to come. Michael’s cock pulses hotly at the idea, but he doesn’t want to be done yet. His ass doesn’t ache nearly enough, he hasn’t gotten his fill of Geoff’s rough hands on him.

“Don’t you dare stop, Geoff,” he chokes out, voice thick.

“Or what?” Geoff asks smugly, hooking a slick finger into Michael and making him gasp. “You’re not in any position to be making demands here.”

Michael’s jaw goes slack as Geoff starts working the digit inside him, not quite deep enough to be satisfying but still crooking in a way that makes Michael’s brain a bit fuzzy. It takes a moment of fucking back against Geoff’s hand for Michael’s mouth to start working again. “Keep going. Jesus, I-- fuck, I need more.”

“I know you can do better than that,” Geoff challenges, sinking his finger in to the last knuckle. Michael squirms, already nodding into the sheets as Geoff asks, “Gonna beg real pretty for me, baby boy?”

“Please,” Michael whines, always so eager to give Geoff what he asks for. “Please, please Geoff, don’t stop yet. Please.”

When Geoff spanks him this time, his hand is slick with lube. While the feeling has Michael arching his back, the sound it makes is _obscene_ , wet and dirty in a way that only serves to turn Michael on more. He keeps babbling pleas for Geoff, bucking back against his hand as Geoff slaps him, Michael clenching around Geoff’s finger with each powerful blow. He doesn’t pull away again until Michael’s speechless, whimpering into the mattress with his cheeks wet with desperate tears.

Michael feels wrecked already--like he could come if Geoff took mercy on him and laid even a single stroke on his cock. Lying delightfully helpless over Geoff’s knee, his ass stinging smartly, the way he can’t see what Geoff’s about to do to him next--it all has him riled up, arousal curling so tight in his gut that he might just burst. The blood under his skin is hot and throbbing with _want_ , set aflame by the knowledge that Geoff will, no doubt, take him apart.

Geoff removes his finger, dragging the slick digit up Michael’s spine and quickly replacing it with two from his other hand. Michael’s tense, his entrance tight, and the stretch of two fingers burns in the best way. It doesn’t take long for Michael to relax into the pleasure, to loosen up and let Geoff’s big fingers slip into him, to rock backward as Geoff fingerfucks him.

“That’s it,” Geoff encourages, “Fuck, you’re so easy for it, aren’t you? So tight, but you’re still so desperate to be filled up.”

Michael answers him with a wet moan, shifting his knees a bit farther apart. He doesn’t mind being easy for Geoff.

“This is just what you needed, isn’t it, Michael?” Geoff’s free hand moves to spread Michael open wider, gripping Michael’s ass hard enough to make the tender skin burn. The angle is so, so perfect--giving Geoff the leverage he needs to shove his fingers deep, to brush against Michael’s prostate with every thrust and make Michael shake. “I love taking care of you like this. You cry so pretty when I fuck you hard enough.”

Geoff’s fingers press in firmly at those words, twisting devilishly and making Michael sob out another moan. Michael might be blubbering for more, some combination of _please_  and _Geoff_  and _yes_ , but he’s not sure--can’t be sure of anything right now other than the way Geoff’s fingers are fucking so roughly into him.

“You ready to come?” Geoff asks, and Michael whimpers at the suggestion, squeezing his eyes shut as Geoff’s movement quickens and more hot tears slip down his face. “You’ve been so good, baby. Go ahead, come for me.”

Geoff thrusts deep, crooks his fingers inside Michael, and Michael, always obedient, always eager to please, comes messy and shaking in Geoff’s lap.

Geoff keeps moving, fingers drawn back to fuck him shallowly, and talks him through it, tells Michael how good he is, how pretty he sounds, how Geoff loves seeing him so fucked-out. When Michael’s finally spent, face hot and wet with tears, limbs loose and heavy, he’s glad to be strewn across Geoff’s lap, that he can sink, blissful and exhausted, into Geoff’s warmth.

Geoff is insistent on moving him, though, swings his own legs onto the bed and pushes firmly until Michael rolls off of him. Michael hisses when his tender backside brushes the fabric of the sheets, the pain sending an almost overwhelming surge of pleasure to his softening cock. Geoff moves him onto his stomach, kissing gently between Michael’s shoulder blades before disengaging completely.

Michael grunts in protest, turns his head to watch Geoff kick off his shoes, shimmy out of the jeans that are now wet with Michael’s come. His cock is tenting his boxers, hard and utterly neglected. Geoff grabs a bottle of lotion from the nightstand before returning, weight dipping the mattress between Michael’s knees.

“How’re you feeling, buddy?” Geoff asks, hands running softly up the backs of Michael’s thighs. Michael hums pleasantly at the feeling.

“Fuckin’ sore,” Michael mumbles, wiping at the dampness on his cheeks. “Wanna kiss it better?”

Geoff chuckles, swipes lightly at Michael’s sensitive ass to startle a yelp from the man. “Don’t tempt me.”

When Geoff’s hands return to his ass, they’re slick with lotion, the skin of his tattooed hands hot and likely just as pink as Michael’s ass from the slap of skin-on-skin. He massages the lotion into Michael’s flesh, squeezing and drawing a pleasant, satisfying sting, a reminder of how sore he’ll be for hours, most likely well into tomorrow.

Geoff’s cock grinds into the inside of Michael’s thigh as he soothes the reddened skin. Michael smiles into the sheets. “Want a hand there, Geoff?”

“Nah,” Geoff says. He spreads Michael wide again, dips a slick thumb into his cleft, teasing where Michael’s still wet, still sensitive. Michael shivers. “I’m more than happy like this.”

“Seriously, dude? You’re going to hump my fucking leg?”

Geoff pinches at his ass, before drawing a hand away. Michael turns his head to see Geoff pushing his boxers down, stroking slow along his cock. Apparently the lotion wasn’t just for Michael.

“Gonna come all over your pink little ass, ’s what I’m gonna do,” he huffs, and Michael grins.

“That’s more like it.”

Michael lets his head dip low between his shoulders, arching his back and pushing his ass out against Geoff’s hand. Giving him a show, a pretty picture to burn into his mind as he paints Michael with his come. Michael rolls his hips in a slow circle, feeling Geoff’s eyes on him while he murmurs small encouragements.

“C'mon, Geoff, I wanna feel you. I know how much you get off on seeing what you do to me.”

Michael relishes in Geoff’s low groan, at the lewd noises that Geoff’s hand is making on his cock.

“You made me feel so good. Want you to feel good, too.” Michael can hear Geoff’s pace increasing, the man panting as he fucks his fist. “You’re going to mark me up so nice, aren’t you, Geoff? Please?”

The hand on Michael’s ass squeezes a bit harder, and that’s all the warning Michael gets before he feels Geoff coming, hot and all over Michael’s thighs, his ass. Michael moans along with Geoff, pleased by the feeling as Geoff strokes himself through his orgasm.

“Fuck,” he says, voice husky and thick. “You’re so gorgeous. Fucking beautiful, Jesus Christ.”

Michael can’t help but smile, heart fluttering from the praise.

When Geoff disengages, Michael moves to clean himself up, but then there’s a hand splayed in the middle of his back, keeping him on his stomach so he doesn’t have to roll over and make himself any more pained than he already is. Geoff leaves him to procure a washcloth to clean them up, discards it as well as his shirt before crawling back into bed with Michael.

Michael splays himself across Geoff’s chest, giving him a quick kiss before pulling back to prop his chin up on folded hands. There’s hardly even a beat of silence before Michael’s grinning wolfishly.

“So. About that Ryan thing.”

“Christ, Michael,” Geoff laughs. “Already thinking about your next lay?”

“I’m young, spry, and at my sexual peak. Nothing wrong with being a little slutty.”

“You’re insatiable,” Geoff corrects, ruffling a hand through Michael’s messy curls.

“That’s not a no,” Michael hums, wiggling his eyebrows.

“It’s a 'talk to me when I have more than eight working brain cells.’”

“And _I’m_ the one that’s thinking with his dick.” Michael smiles at Geoff nonetheless, allows himself to be pulled into another kiss, lazy and slow as they shift to fit their legs together and shimmy into a position where they can cuddle without smooshing each other.


End file.
